In the basement the help is ironing the children's undershirts
Pan upwards through a dissected view of the house - like a pear sliced in half, pips exposed -
See the floorboards cut in half, the walls, the couch. Pan to third floor, kitchen.
She is screaming over his gruff words, her voice reaching sudden highs then sudden silences like a rollercoaster at a fun fair
He measures his words usually but today he spews out a loud torrent of words the help cannot make out
Pan back downstairs
The help is finishing up a very small Armani shirt
She's listening to Adele on Spotify, the irony of the love songs' lyrics not escaping her
Pan upwards again, this time to the second floor, the children's room
The deserted beds
Perhaps a little blond hair still on that one's Toy Story pillow
Maybe a bottle lid lies forgotten next to that one's cot
Pan downstairs
The help checks her watch and wonders who will pick up the kids from nursery today
And if the nursery staff also notice the bags under the mother's eyes.
The help never was distracted by all the Calvin Klein.
No amount of make up or fur could disguise the look in your eyes, woman.
Pan to the parking lot. The silence of the countryside in the winter.
The help looks out the basement window.
She wonders if, when they come, they will have the sirens and lights on. That way at least she can have a few minutes to prepare herself mentally.
Outside, the crunch of boots on the gravel, the jingling of handcuffs.
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